Tomorrow

At the end of this day,
I have no pretty vases flowering from outdoor fun.

I have no poignant hymns
praising with unbridled passion.

There is nothing worth taking a picture of -
nothing to celebrate in you, in me.

At the end of this day we are both broken -
broken wounds, broken feelings, broken hearts.

There is no other angle,
no promise that tomorrow will be our yellow sunflowers.

If only the night could erase my day as it blots out yours.

For you the morning is yogurt and honey.

For me a chance to remember that His mercies are new.